Things I Know
by lachlanrose
Summary: What if it isn't really about waiting for a little girl to grow up? Logan and Marie deal with some difficult issues. Mature themes.
1. Things He Knows

**Title:** Things I know  
**Author:** lachlanrose  
**Disclaimer:** Marvel owns the fun people. I own nothing. Rats.  
**Feedback:** Sure, why not? I'm feeling lucky today. ;)  
**Summary:** What if it isn't really about waiting for a little girl to grow up? Logan and Marie deal with some difficult issues. Mature themes. You have been warned.  
**Notes:** Thanks to the usual suspects for the awesome betas and to Deejay for the use of the photo. :) This fic actually a pair of stories that each tell one half of the whole. They're meant to be read together. The first part is - Things He Knows: Logan speaks his mind. And the second is - Things She Knows: Marie takes a turn.

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**Things He Knows**

I know all kindsa things 'bout Marie. Little things. Big things. Even the little things that have turned out to be more important than the biggest things. I never really thought I'd want that - knowin' that kinda stuff 'bout another person. It's kinda surprisin', really. I actually _like_ knowin' that stuff 'bout her. Who'd of thought it?

Everyone else here, they don't know her. Not really. Not even a little bit. They think they do and she lets 'em have a little, but not too much. They know she likes the color green and that her favorite ice cream flavor is Godiva's Vanilla Carmel Pecan. Stuff like that. They don't know the _real_ her, though. Not like I do.

I know the little stuff nobody else will ever know. I know she can't fall asleep unless her closet door is closed. That she loves to pile every damn blanket she owns on the bed - not just to keep her warm at night but 'cause she likes sleepin' under the weight of it. I know she always buys a red toothbrush even though her favorite color is green. Hell, I even know _why_ her favorite color is green but I swore I'd never tell and I won't.

I know silly things. She likes to splash in rain puddles and quack like a freakin' duck just to get me to crack a smile. She likes old black and white movies and popcorn with _real_ butter. I know she steals condoms from the med lab 'cause she claims they make better water bombs than balloons. Heh. She's right on that account. She's got shitty aim, but then again when ya steal as many as she does, she's got numbers on her side. She'll get ya eventually. Trust me on that one. I'd know.

I know she hates orange juice but likes oranges. I know she has a major weakness for Godiva truffles, 'specially the amaretto ones. I snagged one from her once. Not the most manly thing I've ever done, but I just had to taste the thing that made Marie's face look like _that_. Now I know why they cost so damn much. Hell if I'd admit that, though. Even to her. A man's gotta have some secrets. Heh.

I know everyday stuff too, like she sleeps on her left side. She sings - badly - in the shower. That girl couldn't carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on it. It's kinda cute, you know, when she's on the _other_ side of a closed door. Lord love her, but enhanced hearin' and Marie's singin' ain't always the best combination, 'specially when it's comin' from _my_ shower at the butt-crack of dawn.

She likes opera length gloves best, but prefers the feel of suede. Smart girl. There ain't anythin' like the feel of fine leather… and leather on Marie is always a good thing. Always. Heh. And I know she likes thongs not regular panties, although I try not to think about that too much… or about her bein' naked in my shower. There's only so much a man can take, after all.

She can cook like nobody's business but pretends not to be able to 'cause it reminds her too much of her mama and how things usedta be back home. She cooks for me though, sometimes when everyone is off doin' somethin' else. I don't know if she does it as much for me as for just wantin' to feel normal for a little while. There's somethin' real nice, intimate 'bout havin' her make somethin' just for me and I like sharin' private moments with her. Even just the small ones. Maybe especially those.

Like I said, I know the small stuff and the big stuff too. The good and the bad. I know she dreams of bein' a painter. I know what she wanted to name her kids. I know where she wants her ashes scattered. I know she works at the youth shelter downtown and she uses mosta her money buyin' those kids extra food or smokes or whatever else they might need to get 'em through the night. She'd know, too. She was one of 'em once. I know hard things too. I know why she left Mississippi. The _real _reason. And I know some bad, _bad_ shit happened to her on the road before we wound up together.

I even know the little things that are really big things. I know she's afraid of bees and wasps. Now, I've heard other people say that, but Marie, she means it. We're talkin' beyond scared. We're talkin' shakin', blood drainin' from her face, throwin' up kinda scared. She's even come and gotten me up in the middle of the night to come to her room and kill one of 'em for her so she could sleep.

At first I just kinda went with it. I mean, she's Marie. It's my job to look out for her. After a while I kinda figured her fear was a little over the top so I pushed her 'bout it a little. I probably shouldn't have, but I figured she couldn't just go through life losin' her shit every time she heard a bee buzzin'. My mistake.

Anyway, one day I decided to just stand there with her 'till she killed it herself. Took three hours. Three of the longest hours I've ever spent, but she did it. I was real proud of her too. She thanked me. She goddamn thanked me and then she fell apart and between the sobbin' and the throwin' up the whole story came out.

That boy she'd kissed back home wanted to get her back for what she did to him. What she did to him. Christ. Like she had any control over what happened that day in her bedroom. Well, it turns out he and two of his friends caught her one afternoon a few weeks after he'd gotten out of the hospital. He and his buddies wore gloves so she couldn't hurt 'em and they beat her, held her down, stripped off her clothes and dumped a jar of wasps on her. They'd kept them in the fridge so they were too cold to fly away but not too cold to sting and they'd chosen wasps not bees 'cause they can sting more than once before they die.

I don't know if it's pure sadism or teenage fascination with bugs that made them pick that particular form of payback, but those little fuckers held her while those wasps stung the shit outta her, and then watched them die as her skin sucked the life outta them. God, and people think mutants are the ones less than human. They were even laughin' at her the whole fuckin' time while she screamed herself hoarse. She's lucky she didn't die. Hell, _I'm_ lucky she didn't die.

I'll tell ya, when she was done talkin' 'bout it, she wasn't the only one who was feelin' sick. How could anyone do that to her? How can anyone look at her and not see that she's precious? That they shoulda been protectin' her, not hurtin' her. What really gets me is that the worst part for her, worse than gettin' beat or stripped naked or stung all over was that she knows they planned it. They _planned_ it.

It wasn't somethin' they just did on the spur of the moment or 'cause he saw her and just snapped. It was deliberate and that's what hurts her the most. She says she could have understood it if it had been somethin' that had happened in a moment of anger. Understood it - not forgiven it. But that they planned it - saw her walkin' around and talked to her face all the time they'd been dreamin' it up - that's what gets to her. It might 'get to her' but it pretty much fuckin' _kills_ me.

Course, she told her parents what happened and those goddamn cowards didn't do anythin'. Not a fuckin' thing. They didn't want to stir up any more trouble they said. Said it was hard enough for them with her bein' what she was. What she was. Like she was some kinda _thing_. Her father even went as far as to say she deserved it for what she'd done to that boy. An eye for an eye. Asshole. I'd like to take his fuckin' eye. I'd wanted to do a lot worse when she first told me. Hell, I _still_ do.

Marie left them that night and she never looked back. My girl's got a lotta pride and more guts than most men I know. Even now, knowin' what was waitin' for her out on that road, she still says leavin' was the right decision. I agree with her, although even _I_ don't know all of the shit that happened to her out there on the road. Some days I think she'll tell me when she's good 'n ready and some days I think maybe I just don't wanna know. But I do know in my heart that she woulda died there if she stayed. She does too. That's why she left.

See, me and her, we got this bond. We can talk. Really talk. Sometimes we don't even need words. She just ain't ready to share that stuff with everyone else here. Maybe she never will be. I just don't know. I do know that bein' here is good. For both of us not just her. Even though they try, it's still mostly me and her. The others don't really know her. Not like I do. They think I'm here killin' time 'till a little girl grows up. God, if they only knew. But it ain't my place to tell 'em and I wouldn't even if it was. She ain't a kid. She hasn't been one for a long time. A long damn time.

Mosta these kids here, even the runaways, ain't had it as bad as her. They had friends. They knew a little about the world when they took off. They had street smarts or knew someone who did to keep 'em out of trouble 'least until they made their way here or 'till Chuck found 'em. Marie was too innocent. Too sheltered. Too pretty. I ain't stupid and I ain't blind. I been around too long to hide from the truth. I know what happens to little girls who look like her on the streets - 'specially when they got a body and a mouth like hers.

When you're as young as her, as naïve, with no money and no friends and no street smarts, the world can be a pretty shitty place. How they can still think she's a kid is beyond me. For Christ's sake, she's got me in her head and even with all of the shit that's happened to me and that I've done over the years, I ain't the worst one in her head. Magneto ain't either.

Think about that one.

Those nightmares that wake her up at night, those are all hers. We told 'em they were mine 'cause from time to time she does have one of mine. She _has_ woken up screamin' 'cause she dreamed 'bout bein' in the lab. God, that just kills me every time. But she doesn't wake up screamin' from hers. Not once. Do you have any idea how scared you gotta be to _not_ scream? Sometimes she can't even talk. I find her throwin' up or shakin' or worse - glassy eyed and so unnaturally still that I can tell she's gone somewhere _else_ to escape her own memory.

I know 'cause I do the same thing. Nights like that I just gather her up and hold her real close. Tell her that as long as I'm still breathin', she's got someone lookin' out for her. Tell her how much I love her and how proud I am of her for makin' it through all of that shit. That she's strong. Beautiful. Lovable.

The world can be an ugly place for people like us. I told her as much that afternoon on the train. 'People like us'. I wasn't referrin' to bein' a mutant and she knows it. The honest truth is that people are basically selfish. Cruel. There ain't any happily ever after. There ain't any fairytale endings. Real life - 'specially life on the road - is gritty. Hard. One of two things happens; ya get busy livin' or ya get busy dyin'. It ain't always an easy choice. Sometimes choosin' to live means you gotta survive some pretty bad shit. You do what it takes to survive. You fight. You bleed. You sell your youth. You sell your body. You sell your soul.

Hope springs eternal.

Hope is the best and worst thing when you're alone on the streets. Without it… well, dyin' starts lookin' pretty good. Believe me. I've been there. And with it… well, what the hell do you think drives those girls to turn that next trick? It sure as hell ain't 'cause they like it.

Nope, life ain't a fairytale. I ain't a prince and Marie - she ain't a princess. Well, not to anyone except me, maybe. I wasn't there when she needed me. Hell, I didn't even _know_ her then. I didn't rescue her… at least not from anyone before Magneto. See, there's no white horse. No happily ever after. No ridin' off into the sunset.

Marie - she hasn't told me all of it. Maybe she never will, but I know that when we are finally ready to be together, I won't be her first. Oh, they never touched her skin to skin, but if I can think of ways around that, so can they. What happened to her - that was abuse, not sex. And someday, when we're _both_ ready, we'll get to know what it's like to be touched like that with love instead of hate and fear or because we paid someone to do it.

See, the waitin', it ain't just about her. It's about me, too. You think I could just go through all of the shit I went through and come out ok? Just 'cause I don't have any scars to show for it on the outside doesn't mean I don't have 'em on the inside. I'm lucky I'm sane. Hell, the _world_ is lucky I'm sane. By all rights I should be sittin' in some padded room somewhere doped to the gills, rockin' back and forth like the dumb damaged animal I usedta be. I know what I'm capable of. And I know how strong the instinct to survive is. Humans are lucky I didn't go the other way, didn't let the animal swallow the man. The things I could do would make Sabretooth look tame by comparison.

Most people think the healin' is a gift. A fuckin' _gift_. I wonder what they'd think if they saw me screamin', yeah, _screamin'_ for death while I gagged on a cloud of steam made from my own blood as they poured that molten metal inta me. There was no mighty Wolverine then. No superhero. Just a man prayin' for an end to the agony.

Smart fuckers too. They did the claws last. I guess they knew if they did 'em first, I'd have found a way to end it while my mind was still intact. At the end, there wasn't much of the man left. Just a mindless snarlin' animal who wanted nothing more than to escape the pain any way he could.

I was that beast, that animal, a long time. It was years, _years_ before I remembered that I was a man. Funny what comes back to ya. For years I couldn't even remember my own goddamn name, but I could remember the taste of the beer I liked and I could recognize the scent of the shavin' cream I usedta use if I smelled it on someone else. But I could only remember bits and pieces of my life _before_. I don't drink tea like a _white_ man, but I don't know _how_ I know that. I remember ownin' a nice car. Somethin' small and very fast. I think it was black. I remember havin' a quilt that was mostly red. I can't remember who gave it to me but I remember it was warm and soft and I always felt real good, real safe sleepin' under it.

It came back real slow in bits and pieces. Not the memories from _before_ - those never came back - but rememberin' how to be a man. That men cooked their food. Wore clothes. Talked in words. Over time, I remembered more and more but still not enough to be… _right_. For a long time I was afraid of people. Yeah, afraid. And I was afraid of bein' touched. It was real confusin', 'specially in the beginnin'. Animal-me only knew touch was bad. It hurt. But Man-me had some fleetin' memory that touch, 'specially a woman's touch, could bring comfort… and pleasure.

Even though I was more animal than man, I knew enough to know nobody would willingly touch me the way I was back then, so I found someone and paid 'em to do it. Thinkin' back on it, I can't say how or why I remembered that - that I could pay for sex, for touch. I guess it says a lot about the kinda man I was before they got a hold of me.

It was a mistake. Animal-me was still too strong and Man-me was still too scared to be touched. Animal-me sorta took control at first. He still does when there's stuff Man-me can't deal with. He made sure he was the one doin' the touchin' not her. A small distinction but an important one. He wasn't gonna let anyone else be in control. He took her hard from behind like an animal. I don't know why that would surprise me. I _was_ an animal back then. He didn't hurt her or nothin', but he wasn't anywhere close to gentle.

Man-me didn't like it. He wanted to be comforted. Held. Loved. Animal-me knew he wasn't strong enough yet for that. He was still too afraid of bein' touched. Animal-me couldn't fight the instinct to mate and sorta overrode Man-me's fear of bein' touched but Man-me got the last laugh. He couldn't let go. Couldn't come. Couldn't let himself be vulnerable even if it was only for a few seconds. Self-preservation is a strong thing. Not even the instinct to mate comes before the inborn instinct to survive.

It made me mad. So, I went harder. Didn't accomplish nothin' but makin' us both sore. I ain't real proud 'bout what happened after that. She finally figured out that I couldn't get the job done, couldn't finish, and she started laughin' at me. So I hit her. Not hard, but enough to shut her up. That was the first and last time I hit a woman - the blue bitch not withstandin'. Anyway, she grabbed her shit and left and I finished alone just like always.

You know, if it wasn't so sad, it'd almost be funny. I had this real strong sex drive and this animalistic urge to mate but a body that didn't like to be touched and just couldn't seem to let go unless I was alone. Man-me is in control these days, so the mindless urge is controllable, but I still don't like bein' touched. How fucked up is that? In my more contemplative moments, I wonder if the Big Guy upstairs is tryin' to tell me somethin'.

I bet it surprises some people that I can still believe in God after all of the shit that I been through. Maybe I wouldn't if it wasn't for Marie. Only God coulda made someone like her. Made it so we'd meet and made it so that she could still give and receive love even after all the shit she's been through.

Neither of us in is a real big hurry for the sex part. I'd be lyin' if I said I don't feel the desire to make love to her but we got time and I learned long ago that rushin' somethin' some parts of me ain't ready for is only gonna end badly. We both want to, but neither of us is ready just yet. So for now, we let 'em think I'm waitin' for her to grow up.

Truth be told, I think I'm more nervous than her. It's been nearly ten years since that first time and I still can't let go with a woman. Oh, there've been women since that first one. Probably not as many as you might think, though. Over the years I've learned to enjoy a woman's touch and I've been close to lettin' go a couple of times but I still can't let myself come, let myself be that vulnerable - not even with someone I know I can easily best in a fight if I had to. It ain't right or fair, but I learned long ago life ain't particularly fair.

Marie knows.

She has known since she touched me that night I stabbed her. That's why she was so surprised to see me on the train and even more surprised when I put my arm around her. She knew how hard that was for me - and what it meant.

Trust. We had trust.

It was too much at first, 'specially after what happened in the torch. That was the first time I held someone like that and the first time I cried for someone, 'cause my heart hurt for _them_. Man-me just wasn't ready to deal with that just yet so Animal-me kinda took over and got us the hell outta Dodge before I lost my shit entirely. Man-me spoke up enough to give her the tags, though, and thank God for it.

Lookin' back, we both needed that time. I've been back at the school a couple of years now. Me and Marie, well, I think it's almost time for us. We've been workin' toward it for a while now. Growin' closer. Learnin' 'bout each other. Healin'.

She slept over last night. She does most nights these days, but last night was special. We were just layin' together, holdin' each other close. We do that a lot now. That was hard for us both in the beginnin', but slowly it got less scary and more comfortable. I miss holdin' her now on the rare nights she doesn't sleep in my bed. It was a long, _long_ time before that layin' together was anythin' more than two damaged people tryin' to make it through the night. It's still mostly just us holdin' each other and bein' close, but we're slowly startin' to touch each other differently than we used to. Sexually.

Last night was one of those nights. She was touchin' me some, real soft, real gentle, through my sweats. Nothin' hot-n-heavy. She wasn't tryin' to get me off and I wasn't tryin' to come. It was just real slow and real sweet. She's always real tender, real lovin' with me. I was thinkin' she smelled good, like vanilla and warm woman and a little like my scent 'cause I'd been touchin' her some too. Her voice was real soft and low and she was tellin' me how much she loved me, loved layin' with me, just feelin' me breathe and hearin' my heart beat when all of a sudden it just happened.

My body got tight and I panted her name as I came in my pants like some green kid. The truth is, it might have been like some kid, but I'd never felt like more of a man. I'd also never felt that close to another human being as I did in that moment. Animal-me and Man-me were as shocked as Marie and then we were fuckin' ecstatic for half a minute before the magnitude of what happened sunk in. And God, did it. I guess I had kinda gotten used to the idea of never bein' able to share that part of myself with anyone again. She just held me real tight and never said a single word. She didn't have to.

That was the first and only time I ever cried for me.

See, the things I know, they all ain't bad. I know she'd love me even if last night hadn't happened. I know that the act of comin' with a woman doesn't make me more of a man… but trustin' her enough to let myself be vulnerable with her sure as hell does. I ain't the brightest man around but I'm smart enough to know real healin' when I feel it and real love when I've found it.

For me, it's knowin' the only woman I want on her knees in fronta me or on her back under me, is the same woman I want walkin' at my side, fightin' at my back and standin' behind me to hold me up when I can't do it alone.

See, it ain't about fairytales and men on white horses marryin' virgin princesses. Sometimes it's just about two broken people learnin' to trust again.


	2. Things She Knows

**Things She Knows**

I know all kinds of things about Logan. Probably things even _he_ doesn't know I know. Little things, big things… It's all rattling around inside my head along with a ton of other stuff _I_ probably don't even know I know. It's not just because we touched, either. Although, I've got to admit that does give me a definite edge in understanding all things Logan.

And I don't mean the stuff everyone knows. Stuff like he's growly. That he swears a lot. That he likes his cigars Cuban, his whiskey smooth and his hockey a tad on the bloody side. It's not like he hides who he is. It's pretty much out there… if you know how to look. Hiding what comes naturally to him just isn't in his nature. He likes what he likes and he doesn't apologize for it.

Just watching him can tell you a lot. Although watching him without him being aware you're watching him? Definitely NOT gonna happen. The others might know some stuff because he lets them see things from time to time, but those are _outside_ things. I'm the only one he really talks to, the only one he shares _inside_ things with.

I think I'm pretty lucky that he shares those things with me especially after all he's been through. Inside, he's this whole other person. He has fears and hopes and dreams the same as any other man. Honestly, I can't believe that person he is inside is still there, still capable of giving and receiving love after what he endured. He's the strongest man I know… and the most gentle. He would disagree with me, but I know the truth. I feel it every time he holds me when I cry or rubs my back and whispers against my hair when he rocks me back to sleep after the nightmares come.

I'm always humbled when I think about how much of himself he's shared with me. I know so much about him. Things that make my heart smile and things that make it ache terribly. Big things, little things, things nobody would ever guess about him because of the way he looks or how he acts when he knows other people are around. He might be reckless and irresponsible with his personal safety but he'd kill or die to save any one of us. He's a hard man but he's _not_ the animal he thinks he is or a killing machine or even a tool to be used in the pursuit of some impossible dream just because he heals.

He's simply a man.

I don't know why it's so hard for people to understand that. I guess they just don't see him the way I do. They don't _know_ him the way I do… and that's just as much because they don't choose to look as it is because he doesn't share _inside_ things with them the way he does with me.

I know little things nobody else will ever know. He likes wildflowers. Not for the flowers for themselves, really, or because of the way they smell, but because of the colors. He spent so long running wild in the forest where everything was a shade of green or brown, that the difference in the colors really fascinated him at first. I know his favorite color is royal blue. He never told me why, but my guess would be that because true, vivid blue isn't a color one usually finds in nature, he probably didn't see it for the first time until he left the forest. I think it reminds him he's a man not a beast.

I wear blue for him a lot. The same way Jean wears red for Scott. It's such a small thing, but it's also kind of a big thing too. And besides, I like seeing the smile it always puts on his face when he thinks nobody's looking.

I know other things that might surprise some people. He likes sunsets better than sunrises. He sleeps on his back. He snores quietly sometimes… that's how I know he's sleeping deeply, peacefully. You'd think I'd find it irritating or that it'd keep me up at night when I sleep over, but actually I like hearing it. It's comforting in an odd sort of way and I miss it when I'm sleeping alone. He likes to sleep really close at night. He'd deny he's a snuggler but that's exactly what he is. He likes to bury his face in my hair or against my chest and breathe me in while he sleeps. It's not sexual. It's just intimate. I like sleeping with him that way too. It's comforting for both of us, I think.

He's also a cover hog but he makes up for it by being the equivalent of a human furnace. It's kind of funny, actually. He'd much rather be cold than hot, yet he radiates enough heat to keep me plenty warm even when he _is_ hogging all the covers. He's always extra growly in the morning, especially if he has to get up early and I know he hides his head under his pillow and growls when I sing in his shower. That's why I do it. I like hearing him growl… and I like teasing him. He grumbles, but I know he likes it too.

Even though our sleeping together isn't sexual - yet - I know he gets hard sometimes. Actually, it happens a lot. He's never tried to hide it, but I know it used to make him really uncomfortable to have an erection around me. In the beginning, it used to make me nervous too, but we're long past that now. It's just something that happens. He can't control it any more than I can control my body's reaction to him.

Up until recently, we've pretty much just been ignoring it. Intimacy is hard enough for us both without it being sexual in nature. We both pretend not to feel that part of him trapped between us when we cuddle at night and I pretend not to be aware of the erection he has every morning on the way to the shower… just like he pretends not to notice my body's reaction to it.

Actually, when all - well, ok, _most_ - of the sexual awareness is removed, morning wood is kind of funny. I'm _so_ glad I'm not a man. For all the embarrassment and discomfort we had to work through in the beginning, it's nice having that intimacy with him now. I feel completely safe and comfortable with him and I know he feels that way with me too. We've worked hard to get to where we are and I know that when we're finally ready to have sex that it's going to be good. Not perfect. Not magical. We're both too damaged for our first time to be anything but awkward… but still, I know it's going to be good. Full of pleasure and tenderness and maybe some laughter if we're lucky.

I know other things too, everyday kind of things. He keeps his room immaculate. He's kind of a neat freak except for a few notable exceptions. He almost never hangs his towel up after he showers. He always throws it over the shower door instead or if I've slept over, he showers first and then hands it to me as I'm on my way to shower so I'll hang it up for him. Hey, it's a fair trade. He makes the bed. All kidding aside, I don't mind at all - and not just because I feel indebted to him for taking care of me or because between time the towel comes off and the clothes get put back on, I see a whole lot of naked Logan… it's because he trusts me enough to be vulnerable with me.

There are a few other exceptions to his neat freak-ness. He doesn't ever hang up his jacket. He always throws it over the back of his chair instead. He never puts the cap back on the toothpaste either and he's the absolute _worst_ about putting a new roll of toilet paper back on the roll when the old one's run out. Neat freak or not, sometimes he's _such_ a man.

In his defense, though, he can make a bed perfect enough to bounce a quarter on. Believe me. I tried it once. I should have known better than to bet him on something like that. I wound up having to make his bed for an entire month and he smirked at me every damn time too, because no matter how hard I tried, it never looked as good as when he made it. Show off.

That's another thing people really don't know about him. He has a pretty interesting sense of humor. It's really dry and definitely warped, but it's in the mix for sure. He doesn't show it to very many people. Actually, I was kind of surprised that he could be so light hearted at times considering all he's been through, but he has his moments. They are few and far between but he definitely has them… and he's damn sneaky to boot. He's found some _other _more, um… _creative_ uses for those enhanced senses of his than just hunting, tracking and fighting.

Honestly, the man's a menace.

Poor Bobby gets blamed the most often. I think Charles and Scott suspect that Bobby isn't quite sophisticated enough to pull off half the things he gets blamed for doing but I also think they know that Logan has precious little to laugh about in his life so they don't begrudge him a little fun every now and again. Personally, I think they enjoy it as much as Logan does.

Well, almost.

There are other things, too. He has a sweet tooth. A big one. Not so much for cake and cookies; it's the more concentrated things. A generous dollop of honey in his coffee, a truly frightening mound of sugar on his cereal, a piece of hard candy. He also has a thing for wintergreen mints. It makes me just shiver thinking about his mouth tasting like that. I have a thing for wintergreen too.

I try not to think about it too much, especially after the time I teased him about how all those cigars and candy pointed to a serious oral fixation on his part. He just raised an eyebrow at me and smirked but his eyes were absolutely on fire. I got the message loud and clear. I _do_ have him in my head, after all. That was the last time I teased him about that particular topic. Just because he had a hard time letting go with a woman didn't mean he didn't enjoy giving pleasure; and that was clearly his favorite way to do it. I still smile when I smell the scent of wintergreen on him, though. It's as much a smell I associate with Logan as I do the rich scent of cigar smoke and leather or the fresh crisp smell of the outside that always seems to linger in his hair and on his skin even when he's been inside for hours.

That's how I knew he was the one who'd been stealing my truffles. The lingering scent of wintergreen gave him away. Hey, come on, at forty-six fifty a pound, you'd notice if one was missing, too. I know he liked it because a few days later another one went missing. When the third one disappeared, I took matters into my own hands. Nobody messes with a girl's chocolate stash, especially when it's _Godiva_. He isn't the only one who can be sneaky. I knew he'd deny liking something so 'goddamn girly and freakin' overpriced' so I found a way to feed his little habit and keep him out of my stash without him being any the wiser. Or so I thought.

He doesn't get much in the way of mail and he was pretty surprised when the first gift basket arrived at his door. It had all kinds of stuff in it. Gourmet cheeses, beautiful apples and perfectly ripe pears, prettily wrapped packages of nuts, several varieties of bite-sized cookies _and_ one small box of Godiva truffles. I think he was a little embarrassed by the whole thing and it bothered him that he didn't know where it came from. He doesn't like feeling indebted to anyone… so I made up a story about entering his name in some contest… I knew he'd probably smell the lie on me… but if he did, he covered it really well. He just smiled a smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and he gave me a hug before disappearing back into his room.

The next morning, the basket showed up in the staff kitchen - minus the box of truffles. It cost me a pretty penny to have one of those delivered to his room every month, but it was definitely money well spent. Each month he'd take out the box of truffles and the card with his name on it and bring the rest down to the kitchen for everyone to enjoy. Nobody ever knew where it came from and I surely didn't mind that he wanted to share it with everyone. Actually, I kind of thought he might do that. He's just like that, wanting to share (albeit anonymously) when he has more than he needs. It worked out well for everyone, though… because that way I got to taste some of the goodies in it too… well, that and he now had his own chocolate stash to raid when he felt the need.

There are other things I know about him. Things you wouldn't expect. He reads voraciously. He loves music - all kinds. He knows more than you'd guess about fine art and fine wine - although he still prefers an ice cold Molson and the Sunday funnies. He loves driving too fast but his favorite isn't the bike. Oh, no. Logan has a serious weakness for fine German automobiles and precision engineering. Charles once told me he'd considered giving Logan his own set of keys to the black Porsche he always, um… 'borrows' when he's in the mood to _really_ put some highway behind him but he said that for Logan the 'borrowing' part was half the fun. Logan's taken me driving before.

Charles is right.

And so is Logan. The Germans make some damn fine cars… cars that can really _move_ with the right man - or _woman_ - behind the wheel. God, you should have seen the look on his face when I put that car though its paces. Makes me laugh even now when I think about it. He shouldn't have been _that_ surprised. I learned it from him, after all… albeit indirectly. It was the first time he really _got_ that the things I'd absorbed from him were a part of me now. He might have been shocked at first, but by the end of the ride he was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

And so was I.

I know other things too. The kind of things that don't seem big but really are. Logan likes listening to the rain falling. Not misty rain or really hard rain - but gentle rain. He likes hearing it fall on the roof, especially when he's in bed at night curled up under a soft blanket with the window open. I think it's because he likes being reminded that he has a warm dry place where he's safe from the elements. I also think that the soft rain is kind of like a release for him - the tears he can't and won't shed for himself.

That's another of the small-big things. He might have a biting sense of humor and a wise-ass answer for everyone, but he acknowledges the really deep, important things with silence. I really like that about him - that stillness, that quiet. The voices in my head are never completely silent. I love that he shows how he feels with actions instead of words. With all of the people I have inside me, I hear enough meaningless words to know that actions speak far more than even the prettiest words. Logan might not be a big talker, but he speaks more eloquently to me than anyone else ever has, even when he says nothing.

That said, I still cherish our talks, especially the ones about _inside_ things. I like sharing my _inside_ things with him too, but we still haven't told each other everything. It's a little different for him because I have him in my head. I sort of know about the things he doesn't want to give voice to. I've never said anything about it and I'm pretty sure he knows, but we all have things we'd rather not share so I don't push him about it. He doesn't push me about the things I haven't shared either. He knows I haven't told him everything. Honestly, I don't know that I ever will. I think there are some things he's probably better off not knowing.

I did tell him about the wasps and about why I left Mississippi, but he doesn't know the _whole_ story. I didn't tell him. Not because I was embarrassed or because I thought he'd turn away from me in disgust, but because I _know_ him. I know he _wanted_ to kill them for what they did to me and I know he _would_ kill them if he knew the whole truth. I don't want that for him.

I know what you're probably thinking. They didn't rape me - at least not with their own bodies. I think they were too scared a condom wouldn't protect them from the girl with the poison skin. It didn't stop them from using other things though. The doctor I saw afterwards said I'd probably never be able to have children. Now, Logan knows about that… but he thinks it's because of my mutation. I let him think that because he carries enough grief on his shoulders already. Too much.

There are other things I haven't told him. Bad things. He knows when we're eventually ready to have sex he won't be my first. He's lived on the streets. He knows what happens to little girls with no street smarts and no one to protect them. I'm sure he has a general idea of what happened and quite frankly, I'm not sure I want to tell him that I sold my virginity for thirty bucks and a trip through the McDonald's drive-through.

I'd been on the road seventeen days and hadn't eaten in five. Hunger was my constant companion in the beginning. Sure, I'd been hungry before but never like that - willing to do almost anything to make my stomach stop feeling like it was eating me alive. It was one of the first hard choices in a long line of tough decisions I'd have to make.

Sell myself or starve.

For all my worrying over my skin when my mutation manifested and what it would mean for my sex life, in the end it wasn't really all that hard to get around. I left most of my clothes on and he used a condom. I think he got off on the thrill of making it with someone who could very possibly kill him. Sicko. He made me give him a blowjob first… something about a 'fuck-me' mouth and that I had to 'make it up to him' for being untouchable. I cried the whole time. It took four days for the pain between my legs to go away and even to this day, I still can't bring myself to eat at McDonalds.

Looking back on it, I'm disgusted with myself. Do you know how stupid that was? How stupid _I_ was? Only an idiot starves on the streets, especially in the city. I was just too dumb to know any better back then. Shoplifting food, stealing lunches, eating out of trashcans… the possibilities are nearly limitless and I've done them all. You can't fill a stomach with dignity or pride.

I kept track. It's morbid, I know, but I did it anyway. 257 days on the road. Thirteen blowjobs. I sold my body six times. Four for food in those first two months I was on the streets and twice for a ride and a warm place to sleep when I was in danger of frostbite after I'd made it into Canada. You think that trucker gave me a ride to Laughlin City out of the kindness of his heart? Hardly.

Six times. That doesn't count the rapes. There were two of those. Only two. Word gets around. After the second one died, nobody wanted to take a chance on the girl with the poisoned skin - at least not when she was unwilling. Both of the guys who attacked me knew about my skin beforehand. I guess they thought raping me would be some kind of ultimate test of their manhood or something. They were bigger and stronger, but I won in the end. It's hard to concentrate on pinning a person's hands when you're having an orgasm. Both of them forgot that for a split second. That was all I needed.

I didn't feel guilty for killing either of them - only guilty that I enjoyed it so much… until the nightmares started coming, anyway. It wasn't so much fun after that. Eventually the pain and bruises faded but the scars never did. Not the ones on my skin or the ones inside my heart. They didn't fade from my mind either.

Unfortunately, neither did the memories of the seven _other_ people I drained until they were dead. Nine people in all, dead because of me. I'm not sorry. They deserved it. I'm just sorry parts of them are still stuck in my head. I don't think I'll ever be able to tell anyone here about that. Maybe someday I'll tell Logan… when we're both stronger. We've both managed to reclaim our minds but we're both still kind of working on reclaiming our bodies.

I know about his past and how afraid he was of being touched even when he craved the comfort and pleasure he knew it could bring him. I've known since I touched him the night he stabbed me. It's one of the things he doesn't like to talk about. Mostly I know about it from the things my skin pulled from his mind that night. It doesn't surprise me that he won't talk about it. He knows I know and that's enough. I know how much it frustrates him that he can't let go with a woman and I know how angry he is with himself for that perceived weakness. I also know what a big deal it is that he touches me willingly and that he accepts my touch in return.

I don't think he's any less of a man because of it. I know better than anyone that the worst scars are the ones you can't see. Doubly so for him, because he doesn't have any scars on the outside to show he's been through hell and back. It's like the pain he endured can just be swept under the rug, dismissed, because he has no scars to show for it. I see them though, just like he sees mine. It's been a long painful road for both of us, but slowly, surely we're reclaiming ourselves.

I lived here more than a year before I started touching myself again. Yes, again. I used to do that before - back in Mississippi before all of this started. I mean, come on, I was a normal sixteen-year-old hormonal teenager back then. I did it. I liked it. It used to feel good. Anyway, after what happened with the wasps and then selling myself… well, I just kind of stopped feeling anything anymore. Not physically, not emotionally, not anything. I just wanted to be numb.

It was a long, _long_ time before it felt good again. It's still the best in Logan's bed, cozy and safe, surrounded by his scents - tobacco and wintergreen and something that's just elementally _him_. I don't do it when he's in the bed, of course. We're not ready for that just yet but I think maybe we might be soon.

I know he does it too, almost every morning in the shower. Usually more than once on the nights I sleep over. It's kind of nice knowing I have that effect on him. He doesn't try to hide it from me. He isn't really loud or anything but he doesn't try to stifle the low growls he makes when he comes. I like hearing him. It's incredibly intimate and it's a big step for both of us - especially now since he's been leaving the bathroom door open just enough so that I can see his hazy shape through the frosty glass of the shower if I want to.

Usually I finish before him but sometimes we finish together. I like that, too. I know he can hear me. I'm pretty quiet but he has enhanced hearing and his growling is always louder when I pant his name. Even if he couldn't hear me, the scent gives me away every time. He likes that I do it in his bed… likes smelling me on the sheets and knowing that I'm thinking of him even if we're not actually touching. He never says anything but he always grins at me really big when he comes out of the bathroom. I never say anything either but I always smile back.

We've pretty much gotten used to each other's bodies, too. We take turns wearing something to bed when we sleep together, but both of us prefer to sleep naked, or at least we do when we're sleeping alone. That's sort of how the whole seeing-each-other-naked thing happened - you know, by accident. I have my own room now. I'm really thankful for that because the last thing Kitty and Jubes need is an eyeful of half-naked Logan storming in to wake me up from a bad dream. Anyway, my new room is right next door to Logan's and it's easy to hear each other through the thin walls. I wake him from his nightmares and he does the same for me. We were bound to see each other naked eventually. Somehow, when the person you care about more than your own life is shaking and throwing up and scared beyond comprehension, nakedness kind of takes a back seat.

Both of us are more concerned about taking care of each other at times like that. I could care less if he saw a flash of my breast or if I saw his penis. To tell you the truth, I really don't give it a second thought. It's all about giving and receiving solace from each other. His body is just a shell. It's the person _inside_ that I love. Those nights, I'm not really even aware of him as a man or of me as a woman, for that matter. At times like that, he isn't a scary naked man to me, he's just Logan, just my best friend who's scared and hurting and in need of comfort. Believe me, there's nothing sexy about it. God knows my nakedness is the last thing on his mind when he's holding my hair back as I'm retching and it's certainly the last thing on my mind when I send him to the shower while I remake his bed with fresh sheets.

We've sort of worked out a system. We just leave clothes by the bed in case of emergency so whichever one of us gets up can just throw on something and be out the door when the other person needs them. Well, that's how it works when we sleep apart. Now that we sleep together more often, we take turns wearing something to bed. It's a small price to pay for the comfort of being wrapped around each other every night.

Last night was his turn. He wore sweats and a top but we both wore gloves. That's something new. It's one of those small-big things. It means we're both planning ahead in case we want to touch each other. Things have been going pretty well for us lately. The nightmares, the really bad ones, are much less frequent. We're both healing, becoming more comfortable touching each other. We're slowly starting to share sexual kinds of touches. That's new too. It's always tender, always gentle. Before each other, the only kind of sexual touch we knew was rough and impersonal. We're never like that with each other. I think it kind of surprised him that he could enjoy a sexual touch that wasn't rough and hard or had a violent edge to it. I know it surprised me that I could find pleasure in a sexual touch after all I've been through.

Last night was kind of special for us. I was touching him gently through his sweats. I always talk to him when I'm doing it so he knows how much I like touching him, that I take as much pleasure in touching him as he does in being touched. It's important he knows that. He hardly ever talks back to me but that's ok. He doesn't need to. I wasn't trying to force a response from him, verbal or otherwise. I'd never do that. It was only about making the person I love feel good. I think he was even more surprised than I was when his body got all tight and his hips arched up off the bed as he panted my name and came against my palm.

For a moment, he had the most amazing look on his face - part ecstasy, part wonder and part disbelief. I think he'd given up on ever sharing that part of himself with another person. Even before his hips had completely stilled, he'd buried his face in my neck and made a sound low in his throat not unlike the whine of a wounded animal. He held me so tight it was difficult to breathe. He never made another sound but I could feel hot tears trickling down my neck. That was the only time he ever let himself cry for him - for the things he'd lost and the things he'd been afraid he'd never find again. That night he didn't need the gentle rain. I held onto him as tightly as I could and just let him heal, humbled beyond tears that he could let himself be that vulnerable with me.

I think of all the things I know about Logan, the thing I love the most is that he lets me carry him too, lets me be the strong one sometimes. I need that, need that give and take, need to know that he doesn't always have all the answers and that I'm not just some basket-case he holds together with duct tape and a prayer - that I help him too. He isn't too proud to lean on me when he needs to. I'm strong enough to give him that and the reverse is also true. He's always there when I need him to carry me. No matter what.

I'm not naïve enough to think he can always protect me from what comes and I know I can't always protect him either… but we'll do our damnedest to try and no matter what comes our way, we'll always be there for each other. It's that trust, that loyalty that makes the rest of what we have possible. For me, it's knowing the only man I want in my bed and inside my body is the same man who holds my heart in his hands, protects it with his life, and trusts me enough to give me his heart to hold and protect in return.

He's really fond of saying there are no princesses and no princes, no riding off into the sunset on a white horse. He believes there are no fairytale endings for people like us. After what we shared together tonight, I'm not so sure about that. You know, laying here next to him and hearing his soft even breathing, I think maybe he's wrong. I think maybe someday this broken princess and my battered prince might just get that ride into the sunset after all.


End file.
